


Sunbeams Find You

by unsettled



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dreams, Established Relationship, Fluffuary, M/M, POV Peter Parker, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: If Peter’s sleeping, he’s dreaming. And if he’s dreaming— it’s of Tony.(Prompt: Dreams)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53
Collections: Fluffuary 2021





	Sunbeams Find You

Peter dreams.

He dreams about Tony’s hands. About the myriad scars covering them, smear of something—oil or grease pencil or soot or  _ something— _ that’s always present. That Peter always sees, because he can’t miss Tony’s hands. No one can, the way he talks with them. Not with the way he’s always flicking through his holographic interfaces, with the most delicate touch, the whole system so tightly keyed to him that his command gestures have become so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable. He always has to dial it back for anyone else to be able to use it, but not for Peter. Not anymore. 

He dreams of Tony’s hands, the warm pressure of them on his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the small of his back. All the acceptable places for Tony to touch him in public, that Tony touches him constantly, public or private. It’s a comfort to Peter, to have that little reminder that Tony is there. Tony is there for him, if needed, at his back; and it is at his back now, letting Peter lead, managing to let Peter make mistakes here and there, knowing that, with Tony, almost nothing is unsalvageable. 

He dreams of Tony’s smile, the showy grandstanding one he saves for TV and assholes. The one he’s never turned on Peter, the edge of it always softening. Thinks of the small, almost hidden smile Tony gets sometimes, when they’re alone, when they’re with Rhodey or Pepper or some of the Avengers. It’s this barely there, one sided thing, soft and absent minded, that creeps in when he’s watching someone he cares about more than he has words for. 

He dreams of Tony’s smile, the really, truly happy one Peter’s been seeing more and more of. The one that starts so small and uncertain, like this might be a joke, and grows until his whole face is engaged, until every bit of him is loose and content for as long as Peter can make it last. Dreams of his voice, the ways it goes softer when that smile comes out, the way he can hear it when Tony smiles like that even in the armor. 

He dreams of the armor too, of Tony working on it, of it on him piecemeal, one hand and arm gleaming red gold, the boots weighing him down, the helmet tipped over on its side, the interior full of blinking lights. Dreams of Tony in it, the sound of it when it flies by Peter, the back draft when Tony shields him. The way the new nano arm creeps over him as it forms, a glittering tide that honestly creeps Peter out a little, still. It’s so responsive to Tony’s thoughts, to his commands, and Peter— Peter worries about those snap decisions Tony makes, about who they end up putting most at risk. 

He dreams of every minute he gets to spend with Tony, whether it’s working together or fighting or slumped over in the aftermath, both of them worn out and needing to know the other is whole. The time spent with Tony doing press for Spider-Man, or training, or shared with anyone else at all is still time Peter is grateful for, that Peter wants. But when there’s the chance for it, the best time is when they can just exist. The lure of a great burger or a stupid new ‘it’ food—Tony loves to try all of them, even if they’re terrible—is often enough to get Tony out of the shop and out of the lab and out of the tower for at least a little. Even if they’re not alone, Tony’s attention is for him and him alone. 

He dreams of all of those things, and he dreams of them— 

He dreams of Tony’s hands on him, fingers linked together and pinning Peter’s hands against the bed. Tony’s hands, spread across his chest and ticklish down his sides and tight around his cock, of them opening him up and spreading his legs and curled behind his head as Tony fucks him. Tony’s hands grasping at him, clinging and desperate and careful, even when Peter’s been teasing him, even when Tony’s cursing him, even when Tony comes so hard he can’t put words together afterwards. Dreams of his smile, when it’s directed at Peter, when it’s the absolute softest and fond and exposes every bit of what he’s feeling. Dreams of it when it’s fucking wicked and Peter knows he’s in for a hell of a go, when it’s sleepy and embarrassed and amused and every possible tinge it can have. 

He dreams of Tony’s voice, telling him all kinds of things, things that definitely cannot be said in public. Telling him how good he is, how hot, how much of a perfect little slut he can be. Demanding that he behave—and mostly laughing when he doesn’t—, that he come back here right this second, that he let Tony come please, god baby, please. Dreams of the armor, even, of Tony stepping out of it all sweaty and flushed and ruffled, of how he never really protests when Peter shoves him back against that shiny red shell and blows him. Dreams of every single second he gets with Tony, every moment their skin is touching, every morning he wakes up to Tony, every every every time Tony tells Peter he loves him and Peter says it back, a loop they never break. 

He dreams of— of other things, of— 

armor, shattered and piecemeal on Tony’s body, disintegrating under the slightest touch, dull and burnt out. Tony’s hands, shaking and covered in ash and still, raw with burns, open wounds. Dreams of Tony, Tony, of Tony nearly unconscious and so hurt he’s barely breathing and his stare, almost blank as he tracks Peter’s movement. Of Tony, god, Tony, being held back and kept away, of not making it in time, of not taking Tony’s hand, of watching him die again and again. Dreams the sickening sound of the blade in Tony’s side, the crackle of energy frying his armor, the horrible hiss of the ventilator and waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting for a miracle. 

Dreams and dreams and dreams, and they all fade when he wakes, the details lost to him forever. He’s left with fragments, a flash of a smile and a lingering touch of a hand and a whisper or two he can’t quite make out. An ache, deep in his chest and his stomach and his head that tells him he was dreaming about Tony, again. 

Wakes and blinks and for a moment, can’t distinguish dreams from reality, can’t tell if there’s a warm body next to him or not, if those are lips on forehead, if—

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he hears, overlaid with dreams. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t,” Peter murmurs. “Still dreaming.” 

There’s a small huff of laughter, the dip of the bed. “Sure you are.” 

Peter blinks again, his eyes feeling almost sticky. Scoots forward until he’s squished up against Tony’s back, wrapping his arms around him. He tangles his fingers with Tony’s bad hand and kisses the back of his neck. “Was,” he says. “And I was dreaming about you anyway. Missed you.”

“Kid, I was a whole two hours later to bed than you.”

“Missed you anyway.” Peter tightens his grip a little more, because they both always sleep a little better like that. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Tony’s good hand reaches up and touches the back of Peter’s hand, briefly. “I won’t,” Tony says. “Promise.”

Peter knows it’s true. Knows he’ll wake up and Tony will be there, that Tony will be sleepy and a little cranky and mutter about old bones when he goes to get up. Knows that Tony will throw a pillow at him if Peter tries to go back to sleep after Tony’s up, that Tony will automatically still try to reach for things with the wrong arm and go tight-lipped and silent for a bit, that if Peter lets Tony try and make anything for breakfast it’s going to end in smoke.

Knows that dreaming is good, but waking up is even better.


End file.
